


words echo out yesterday

by estel_willow



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crash Fest 2019, M/M, Roswellprompts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, alex manes is a gift, crashfest 2019, michael is handling everything badly, michael's issues need their own character tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 15:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19704526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estel_willow/pseuds/estel_willow
Summary: He keeps telling himself ten more minutes. He’ll wait another ten minutes and then he’ll leave, go back to the cabin and think very carefully about his life choices. He never quite knows what to do with himself when he’s waiting, sitting and hoping for the sounds of Michael’s truck to rumble into view. He’s not good at waiting when there’s no military payoff but here he is, regardless, sitting and waiting for someone who may never come. He checks the time again.Ten more minutes, he thinks. Ten more minutes.





	words echo out yesterday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SaadieStuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaadieStuff/gifts).



> This is for Sadie, based on the prompt _Canon or future based Malex fluff or Malex angst with happy ending_. I hope this is everything you were hoping it would be, bb! <3
> 
> And a huge thanks to [InsidiousIntent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsidiousIntent/pseuds/InsidiousIntent) for the beta, and to those people who cheerleaded me through the rough bits! 
> 
> And, because I am an overachiever, there's a [soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2FNJvSIpCwRW1c8pGWXmIq?si=hLezo7ubSRGkPTCE99-WuQ) on Spotify to accompany the fic.

i. **_I have no right to love you, but I still do._**

He keeps telling himself ten more minutes. He’ll wait another ten minutes and then he’ll leave, go back to the cabin and think very carefully about his life choices. He never quite knows what to do with himself when he’s waiting, sitting and hoping for the sounds of Michael’s truck to rumble into view. He’s not good at waiting when there’s no military payoff but here he is, regardless, sitting and waiting for someone who may never come. He checks the time again.

Ten more minutes, he thinks. Ten more minutes.

***

Two hours later, Michael’s truck rumbles into the scrapyard. Alex has lost count of how many ‘ten more minutes’ have passed since he first turned up, but it doesn’t seem to be important in light of the fact that Michael’s here, now. Michael looks tired and wild and when his eyes fall on Alex - seated on a deck chair beside the unlit fire pit - he looks surprised and then deeply, _deeply_ guilty. Alex doesn’t quite know what to do with the second expression, or even the first, if he’s honest. Michael had told him ‘come back tomorrow’, so he had. He probably shouldn’t have waited as long as he has, sitting out in the sun and just waiting, hoping that something will draw Michael back. But he waited, and now Michael’s here.

“Alex,” he starts, shutting the door behind him and slipping his hat onto his head, palm lingering over the rim for a moment before lifting his head. Alex can see emotions swirling in Michael’s eyes, and not all of them are the pleasant ones that he’s used to seeing when Michael looks at him. There’s guilt and turmoil and pain, trepidation and fear. Alex opens his mouth to speak but Michael’s hand lifts and it silences him before he can say anything.

Michael doesn’t speak though, and Alex can’t bear the silence so he does. “You told me to come back,” he says, not accusingly. Just matter-of-fact. “I’m here.” But he doesn’t think they can talk. Not about what matters. Not while Michael’s got that look on his face like he’s Atlas and the weight of the world on his shoulders is too much to bear. 

“Alex this really isn’t-”

“A good time?” Alex cuts him off, slips his fingers into the pockets of his jeans and hitches his shoulders up. “That’s okay, we can talk another time.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to-”

Alex wants to cut him off, tell him that it’s okay. He doesn’t owe Alex an explanation for anything. He thinks that maybe it’s all too much. It’s been twenty-four hours since Caulfield exploded, since Michael watched his mother die. It’s been less than that since the wildest storm Rosewell has seen in a while struck and Michael crashed into his trailer covered in blood from an injury that Alex couldn’t see (and he knows Michael was lying; the blood was definitely his. Alex has seen enough battlefield wounds to know that the spread of blood across the collar was from a personal injury, not from someone else bleeding all over him). 

“I get it,” he starts to say, but Michael’s talking again.

“It’s hard right now, you know?” Alex watches him fidget, hand lifting like he’s going to pull the hat off his head but he doesn’t. The black Stetson stays firmly resting on his hair, squashing his curls. Those that peek out are barely ruffled by the cool breeze. Alex’s eyes zero in on the hand that flexes restlessly at Michael’s side, his left hand, scarred skin now smooth and perpetually crooked fingers straightened. “It’s- it’s hard to-”

“Your hand,” Alex blurts and Michael lifts it, inspects it with a grimace on his face, something painful and profound. “It- Max?”

“I didn’t want him to,” Michael protests, and Alex wonders why not. The lack of reminder of Jesse Manes’ cruelty can only be a good thing. “I didn’t- he had no right to do that but it’s done and I have to- Alex, I can’t do this right now.”

Alex’s blood roars in his ears. He knows what’s coming next. Now the breeze has shifted a little he catches the slightly stale smell of hops that he associates with the Pony. He catches jasmine and bergamot, a smell only associated with Maria. When he meets Michael’s eyes again, Michael doesn’t really have to confirm what Alex has just worked out. His expression does it all for him.

He presses his teeth together to stop himself from reacting. Michael went to Maria. His hand was healed and he went to _Maria_. There’s an uncomfortable jolting in his stomach at the realisation that he’s walked away one too many times. He’s taken too long to sort himself out from his father. Perhaps, in Michael’s eyes, he’ll never be separated from the monster because, after all, they are family. He _is_ a Manes man, even if he never wanted to be.

“I’m- It just hurts right now. Everything fucking hurts, Alex, and I’m so _tired_. Isobel’s a mess and Max is-” his voice hitches a little, Alex drags himself back to the moment, forces the rush of blood in his ears to abate so he can try and piece Michael’s words together over the racing of his heart. “Max is _gone_ and I can’t- I just want it to not hurt.”

Alex reaches out to touch Michael, for no other reason than to comfort him even as the meaning behind the words sinks in like a thousand tiny cuts to his heart. He tries not to react when Michael flinches back from him, hand raised to stop him from coming any closer even before Alex’s fingers have managed to touch him.

“I can’t, Alex,” he says and he’s pleading with his eyes. His brows are creased, and Alex can see the way Michael’s barely holding it together. He’s barely holding it together and some of that is _Alex’s_ fault. “Please-”

Alex presses his lips together and nods. “Okay.” The words feels fragile. Alex feels fragile. He has no right to, he knows that. He’s got no right to anything anymore; he was the one that walked away from Michael repeatedly, he’s the one that turned his back and left when all Michael’s ever wanted was for him to stay. He’s the one that- He’s the one that took Michael to that Godforsaken place that resulted in him watching his people, his _family_ , die in an explosion. He’s the one whose monstrous father did that, and ruined Michael’s hand. He’s the one that let that man back into his head. He’s the one that’s hurting Michael. 

_To love is to destroy_ , he thinks. Alex knows he’s too wrong to have the good things the world deserves. He’s done too many things that disqualify him from ever having a happily ever after and he’s learned to live with that. He just wishes that he could have had Michael, even for a little while. 

“I’m sorry,” Alex says and he steps backwards, hands slipping back into his pockets and shoulders hunching up protectively. 

“I just- I wanna be happy.” 

“I know.”

“Right now it hurts to-”

“-to look at me?” Alex knows he shouldn’t, but there’s a breath-stealing pain that rakes through him when Michael nods miserably. He blows out a breath and closes his eyes just for a moment, to centre himself. He can feel them burning a little, the desert heat - he tells himself - has dried his eyes out so now they’re watering. It’s got nothing to do with the ache in his chest. It’s got nothing to do with the realisation that he isn’t the only one that sees Jesse Manes when they look at him. 

Michael opens his mouth to say something else but no words come out and Alex can feel the bubble of hope that had been swelling inside of him deflating. It doesn’t pop, which would have been preferable because if it pops then the pain’s over immediately. Instead, he can feel it going down like an old balloon, air escaping from a hole somewhere and he can’t stop it. He can just feel it crashing, crushing his heart as it falls, heavy and weighted and broken.

“I’ll see you around, Michael,” he says, stepping backwards. His leg hurts, the dull ache of his pulse in his stump a stutter-start echo of the hollow thumping in his chest. “When- _if_ you’re ever ready to talk-” 

“I’ll know where to find you,” Michael finishes and Alex just nods. As he walks away - again - he can feel Michael’s eyes on him and when he climbs into his car and chances a glance up, Michael’s still watching him and he looks as miserable as Alex feels.

ii. **_I have no right to love you when I chose to walk away_**

He doesn’t see Michael again for about a week. He’s counting. Each day that goes by makes his chest tighten painfully, a throbbing reminder somewhere inside of him that he’s lost the only person to ever _want_ him, to ever love him. He isn’t expecting Michael to look at him but he does; Michael’s eyes are drawn to Alex across the street and whatever happiness Alex had conned himself into thinking that Michael might be feeling in his absence isn’t there in that amber gaze. Michael just looks lost, cheeks flushed and balance off as he catches himself against the sharp brickwork at the corner of the building and drags his gaze to the floor. Alex feels him look away like the sharp sting of a bandaid being ripped from his skin. His fingers rub at his collarbone absently. It doesn’t help the way his body hurts.

He can see from here that Michael’s drunk. Alex glances at his watch. It’s not even noon. When he looks up again, those eyes are focused on him once more and Alex is crossing the road before he can even stop himself. As he gets closer, he can see a definitive five-day stubble darkening Michael’s cheeks that does nothing to hide the vivid purple bruise that’s sitting along the curve of his jaw. Alex’s fingers itch to reach out and brush over the shadow, knowing it has no right to sit there and mar his skin. He wants to press his lips just underneath Michael’s ear and hear the way his breath hitches. He wants to push that curl back from where it hangs over Michael’s eye and bury his fingers in his hair and just _hold on_ as the world rectifies itself. He wants to feel the warm weight of Michael’s arms around his waist, pulling him close and pressing their hips together until their bodies are close enough to make the very atoms of the universe jealous. He wants to kiss Michael until he can breathe again.

But he doesn’t. None of those things happen. The world keeps turning, and Alex and Michael are standing away from each other, apart, and Alex’s hands are flexing restlessly at his sides as Michael stares at him with an expression that’s nothing but utterly inscrutable. It’s heavy, laden with _things_ , but Michael’s gaze is always heavy when it’s focused on Alex. Usually that’s with the kind of heat that’s unbridled, lustful and loving, like the universe has narrowed to a single point. Alex knows that point is him. Knew. Alex knew that for a while he was the axis of Michael’s universe, woven through the fabric of his reality. He knows that’s probably still the case, but he knows - also - that he’s too painful. He won’t hold that against Michael, but he can’t deny that it hurts.

There’s a cut above Michael’s eyebrow, artfully slicing right through the middle, crusted with dried blood and it looks sore, the faint edges of a bruise peppering the skin. When Alex looks down he can hear Michael drawing in a sharp breath, trying to pull his hands back but Alex sees the split skin over his knuckles, broken and raw and wonders if Michael realises that he’s wearing his pain like armour. If he realises that he’s scarring his skin with his hurt. Michael’s always worn his trauma like a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas, but he’s never allowed it to be so visible to those that don’t know him.

Alex feels his world lurching because this, too, is partly his fault. 

“What?” 

Alex lifts his gaze from where he can see blood splatter over the torn fabric of Michael’s jeans and wonders if it’s his or if it belongs to the person Michael goaded into punching him hard enough that the world briefly blacked out. 

“It’s not even midday, Guerin,” Alex answers and he hears more than sees Michael scoffing. 

“‘s my life,” he rumbles, defensively. “If I wanna do this,” he gestured to himself, “then I can.”

Alex presses his lips together and Michael moves to stumble away but he misjudges how close Alex is to him and they collide, Michael’s hands catch his weight on Alex’s shoulders, and Alex’s hands lift to rest against his waist, catching him and steadying him. Their faces are close, Alex can smell the acetone and whiskey on Michael’s breath as it ghosts over his mouth in warm puffs.

“You’re better than this,” Alex tells him and his fingers tighten slightly. 

It’s the wrong thing to say because Michael’s lips twist unhappily again, whatever moment there might have been when Michael’s breath was brushing over his mouth like a caress is broken. Using Alex’s shoulders as leverage he pushes himself away, wobbles until he finds something approaching equilibrium and shakes his head.

“Stay out of it, Alex,” he argues. “I don’t need you to judge me.”

Only, Alex thinks, as he stands his ground, judging Michael is the last thing he’s ever going to do. Michael looks at him and Alex can’t quite read what’s going on behind his eyes. 

“Guerin-”

“Save it,” comes the response, sharper than it had any right to be when hard liquor’s blurred Michael’s sharp edges into something soft and bleeding. “Just go.”

“No, I told you that-”

“You’re tired of walking away,” Michael says it like a parrot and Alex feels himself wincing. “But you did. You did and you do so go do it.”

Alex just lifts his chin and tells his hands to stay put. He wants to reach out because his palms are cold, the chill’s creeping up his arms since Michael stepped away and his touch fell from the spots on Michael’s hips where they belong. He draws in a breath and lets Michael’s words bounce off him. He knows Michael’s hurting, a walking wound, and he knows that his own face, his _presence_ is a liberal smearing of salt, thumbed roughly into the slicing pain Michael feels but he won’t walk away. He can’t. 

Michael just scoffs and waves a hand, fingering the brow of his hat for a moment before he turns. 

Alex watches him leave, feeling cavernous and empty, heart hammering in his ribcage hard enough that he feels like it wants to break free and flop after Michael until he picks it up.

He stays where he is, standing still as a statue, until Michael’s long out of sight.

iii. **_I have no right to need you when I knew what my heart was gonna lose_**

He’s three drinks in at Saturn’s Rings (because he can’t walk into the Pony, even though he and Maria are kin in heartbreak, there’s a sting there that he’s not masochistic enough to force himself to be a part of) when the skin along the back of his neck prickles. He turns his head and sees Michael, arm slung around the shoulder of a leggy blonde, letting her tug him onto the dance floor with an easy - drunken - smile. He pliantly follows and Alex feels himself grimacing, knocking his drink back and easing himself off the stool He can’t watch this tonight.

In fact, he can’t watch it any night, but it keeps happening. He doesn’t think Michael’s doing it on purpose, and he certainly isn’t. But at least once a week he sees Michael with his arm around a different woman, a gorgeous red-head, a curvaceous brunette, a raven-haired Amazonian tourist who looks like she could throw Michael over her shoulder with ease and an ephemeral beauty even Alex can appreciate. Every time, Alex can see the loose-limbed relaxation that comes with Michael having had too much to drink and not enough to eat. 

He goes to approach him, once, early in the evening when Michael’s sat at the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey. He wants to ask him why he’s here instead of at the Pony and wonders if Maria’s finally enforcing the weekly ban that she’d started some time between Alex’s first and second deployments, sticking to her guns. He wants to tell him to just go back to the Pony or drink somewhere else (not that there’s really anywhere else to drink in Roswell that doesn’t involve a bench and a bottle in a brown paper bag and he doesn’t want that for Michael any more than he wants this current spiral. 

It’s a Friday night and Lucas has been talking to him for half an hour. He’s leaning forward more than he needs to; Alex can hear him perfectly well over the music. He also keeps touching Alex’s arm to get his attention as though the small sliver of it that he has isn’t enough (and to be fair, Alex isn’t even half paying attention to him, gaze constantly dragged back from where he’s tracking one Michael Guerin on the dance floor, sandwiched between a six foot four Adonis and his equally stunning girlfriend, missing the way that Michael’s gaze flickers over to Alex every now and then only to see him talking to someone else). He’s politely interested and after an hour he accepts Lucas’ number, hands his own over. He needs to make more friends. But when he turns to find Michael in the crowd to tell him that if he’s planning on going home with both of them he’s probably going the right way to getting himself punched. But Michael’s gone.

So’s the couple he was dancing with.

Alex grits his teeth and heads home, decides that if he sees Michael there again he’ll pull him to one side and remind him that he’s better than a drunken fuck in the bathroom, better than something stuffed between a couple that’re looking to ‘spice up their love life’. That his intrinsic value isn’t linked to how many people he can make feel good momentarily like that’ll absolve him of the pain he’s trying to hide. Remind him that there’s more waiting for him when he’s ready, that he doesn’t have to look for salvation and peace in the bottom of a bottle and in the arms of a stranger. But he doesn’t see Michael there again.

***

“Get your fucking hands off my fucking girlfriend you piece of-”

Alex’s attention drifts from where he’s been sitting having dinner with Lucas. Not as anything other than friends, he’s been clear about that even if it had taken Kyle rolling his eyes and leaning over the table, flicking Alex in the forehead and saying _he’s interested in you, dipshit, be honest with him_ before he’d realised Lucas’ intentions. To be fair, Lucas was a good guy and was cool about Alex not being interested in him like that. They talked about other things, instead, and had found themselves somewhere to sit together and eat, enjoying the balmy evening after the heat had dissipated. At first, he thinks it’s just a fight he doesn’t need to get involved in, some drunken idiots that need to expel some testosterone.

That changes the instant he hears the cocky, “You can’t blame her for looking elsewhere, if you don’t know how to keep her satisfied.” He knows that tone, he doesn’t even have to see the speaker to know their lips will be twisted up into a hollow smirk, their chin lifted in challenge. He doesn’t need to see the speaker to know the set of their shoulders and the tilt of their head, silently inviting the punch they’re really looking for, the reason behind their decision to pursue _that_ woman in particular. 

He’s on his feet before he can stop himself, and Lucas’ startled cry doesn’t even slow his step. Michael’s been punched by the time he gets there, blood staining his teeth and he’s on the floor, left hand splayed to catch his weight with a laugh on his lips that doesn’t belong there. The heady rush of adrenaline he’s been chasing is building in his veins and Alex knows he’s not going to appreciate what happens next but Alex hates the idea of hands on Michael that (aren’t his) are everything harsh and brutal in the way he expects the world to be. He hates the idea of hands that touch Michael to punish instead of worship. He hates the idea of people touching someone that he wants to be _his_. 

“Stay outta this, Manes,” he says from his position on the floor, shifting to his knees to start getting up again and Alex ignores him.

“You wanna walk away now,” he tells the guy, his tone firm. It’s his Captain tone, the one that makes people straighten up and pay attention. It usually works. He can see something within the guy opposite him wanting to obey and go back to his girl (who’s whooping for her ‘bae’ in the gathered crowd) but being utterly unwilling to forgive the slight on his honour, or whatever fucking macho territorial bullshit he was pulling to justify punching someone instead of just having a civil conversation. 

“This piece of shit was hitting on my girl.”

“She seems to be fine,” Alex says calmly and he can sense Michael moving behind him. Michael’s hand curls around his wrist to try and tug him backwards.

“I said stay out of this, Alex,” he mutters, unhappy and unimpressed and swaying on the spot. “I can handle this myself.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Alex replies quietly, turned into Michael slightly. He can’t help it, Michael’s always been a weakness for Alex. A weakness for his father to exploit, an open wound for people to pick at and try to use against him. A weakness that he tried to hide from and handle in his own way and he knew he took too long to turn it into a strength, too long to try and pull himself together to make himself capable of being the lover he needed to be, that he _wanted_ to be. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

“I don’t need you to _save me_ ,” Michael snarls and Alex resists the urge to respond with the snark on the edge of his tongue. He just turns his head back to the amped up guy whose hands are flexing at his side.

“I’m not here to save you,” is all he says instead. “Look, the woman you were here with is fine, my friend and I are gonna go and we can avoid anything else happening.”

He really doesn’t want to fight, but if the guy swings for Michael again, Alex will put him on his ass in a second.

That’s what he ends up doing, in fact, and Michael just snarls at him about how Alex can’ t do that shit _when he’s on a date_ and stalks off. Alex is left rubbing his hand over his face and limping back over to Lucas who pats him on the shoulder and calls him an idiot and then arranges for an Uber to take them both home. 

Later that night, Alex lays awake and does his best not to think about how Michael was so careful not to touch him even as they stood sharing air. How he could smell oil and acetone, whiskey and sandalwood as Michael swayed close but didn’t touch. He does his best not to think about the way Michael’s hands were curled into fists, ready for a fight but Alex knows how to soften those edges into a caress that makes him forget all the ways touch can hurt and remember all the ways it can heal.

iv. **_The cold creeps up next to me, now we don't share these covers, but I've no license to complain_**

It’s habit, now.

Alex wakes up in the middle of the night from a nightmare he doesn’t want to name and his hands grasping at the sheets, sweat-soaked and rumpled, he reaches for someone who isn’t there. Who’s never been there, because they never shared this bed. He hates that every night. Hates the fact that he would rather be cramped on a tiny single in an Airstream, half hanging off the edge of the bed until Michael notices and laughs, tugs him closer until their bodies are sprawled together close and alive, thrumming with warmth and the unbridled joy of company. The hum of pleasure singing beneath their skin as Michael plays him like a guitar, and he kisses Michael like a melody. 

He hates that most of the abiding thoughts he has, the images he clings to as _memory_ are anything but that. They’re snippets, glimpses of what could have been that Alex tortures himself with. He thinks about kissing up the length of Michael’s spine, biting gently at the small scar on his shoulder blade and sinking his fingers into those honey-gold curls, humming his way along Michael’s jaw until he wakes up with a little groan and a soft _you stayed_ , reverent and _happy_. He thinks about the way they’d fall together in the morning, unhurried and unbothered by time or unexpected visitors. They’d stumble into the shower together afterwards and run out of hot water while exchanging lazy kisses, Alex braced against the wall with strong hands on his hips while he pushes his into Michael’s hair.

But when he wakes in the middle of the night it takes time to pull those images forward. It takes time to pull those images out and separate them from the ones of Michael in chains, of Michael on his knees as clippers move over his scalp, cutting and biting at his skin, his curls falling like ash. It takes time to get rid of the taste of betrayal as he watches the door to Michael’s cell in Caulfield close and sees himself in the reflection of the safety glass.

When the morning rolls around, Alex greets it bleary-eyed and rolls over to the other side of the bed. He wishes he wasn’t alone, that Michael was already up and in the kitchen, the perfect picture of domesticity in sweatpants and nothing else, coffee on the go and warm grin on his face as he rumbles something about Alex being sleeping beauty, and Alex retorts with ‘no flirting before coffee’. It’s perfect, in those few moments before reality sinks in, washing over him like a bucket of cold water.

He shuffles into his own kitchen, a three-legged stumbled routine and Wentz licks at his bare toes while the coffee percolates. He closes his eyes against the grief and ignores the itching at the back of his mind to just reach out and text Michael. To check in on him. To see if he needs to be picked up from the Pony because he’s still drunk from the night before or to see if he needs bail because he’s started a fight he knows he can’t win without his powers.

He doesn’t, though. He just wraps himself in his cold blanket of loneliness and watches the world wake up outside the window of his cabin. He tells himself one day they’ll both be ready. He tells himself that one day he won’t hurt Guerin anymore and then he’ll be there, like he promised, just waiting. 

It’s habit, now.

v. **_I have no right to miss you, when I didn't wanna stay_**

It isn’t just that he misses the sex (even though it was epic, Guerin was right) because Alex knows nothing else would ever compare to the way that he’s pushed to ecstasy with little more than a touch of calloused fingers against the skin of his hip and the brush of lips against his jaw. The ghost of stubble at the hollow of his throat as Michael worships his way along Alex’s body. He misses the warmth underneath his cheek when they’re wrapped together, his leg draped and laced together. He misses the way Michael’s fingers stroke up his back like he’s playing a symphony along Alex’s spine. He misses the soft huff of breath against his hair as Michael smiles against the crown of his head and mumbles something stupid and sleepy like _you stayed_ , his voice whispered like Alex is the only saving grace he ever needed.

The images haunt him when he can’t sleep, taunt him in the soft light of the morning when Wentz is spooning him, her feet kicking as she dreams and tail thwacking against the bed. She’s huffing and twitching. He rubs her belly and she rolls onto her back slightly without even waking up and he kisses her nose and groans his way out of the bed. 

It’s become part of his routine, now, when he’s grocery shopping once a week (because he likes to try and eat fresh food even if he can’t cook and has wasted so many ingredients trying to follow youtube tutorials than he’s willing to admit) he grabs extra milk and non-perishables, including coffee and the basic tenets for a meal and leaves them outside the Airstream, tucked underneath out of the sun. On the days where Michael’s truck isn’t there, he calls the station and pays Michael’s bail and calls Liz or Isobel to take him home, telling them there’s stuff under the step that needs to be taken inside. If any of them see what he’s doing, they don’t comment.

Just like the first time he turns up at the Wild Pony at two-thirty am after Liz has called him in half-hysterics because she can’t get Michael to give her his keys. He climbs out of bed and puts on his prosthetic and drives the almost-hour from the cabin to the Pony. 

“Michael, _please_ ,” Liz is saying, standing between Michael and the cabin of his truck. Michael’s eyes are glassy with frustration and alcohol, blurred with hurt and grief and _loneliness_ and Alex feels his chest twisting painfully. His heart knocks against his ribcage. 

“Guerin.” 

His voice echoes across the empty parking lot like a gun-shot and he watches the way Michael’s spine stiffens, the way they both turn to look at him and whilst Liz’s expression melts with relief, Michael’s twists into something else. It’s not inscrutable, but Alex doesn’t want to try and unpack the shame and anger and self-loathing that he can see just on the surface from a split-second look. He can’t. If he starts, he’ll never stop and it’s hard enough for him to fight every urge he has to try and patch Michael back together when it’s been made abundantly clear to him that Michael isn’t ready. And maybe Michael will never be ready, but he’s still grieving Max’s death and Alex knows from talking to Liz that he’s been working every hour of the day he’s not falling apart and spiralling out of control. 

“Manes.”

It’s bitten out. Alex squares his shoulders and walks forward, ignoring the way that it makes Michael recoil a little, like he’s thinking of heading back into the bar to hide in a place he knows Alex won’ t go. He and Maria are texting, and Alex knows she’s not done anything wrong but trying to convince his heart of that is proving to be harder than he’d like.

He takes a moment, doesn’t say anything else but gives Liz a look that tells her that he’ll take it from here. She just nods and heads back towards the entrance of the Pony, detouring around the truck to touch Alex’s arm on the way past. It’s a thank you and he accepts it with a nod of his head, his own hand lifting briefly to brush his fingers along the curve of her elbow. 

“You can’t drive home like this.”

“Done it before.” 

Michael’s posture’s moody, shoulders slightly lifted and defensive and Alex sees it for what it is. It’s a last-ditch attempt to counter Liz’s Hail Mary. He’s well aware that he’s been called in as the Deus Ex Machina in the third-act of the movie of Michael’s downward spiral and even though he knows he should have refused the call, he hasn’t. He never will. 

He promised.

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

Michael just shrugs again, obstinate and unhappy and Alex is torn between wanting to shake him and hug him. Or maybe both, but he’s just not sure which one comes first. “Wasn’t supposed to.”

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Guerin,” he continues and the smile he gets this time is razor sharp, intended to set Alex’s defences prickling.

“Who’s gonna stop me?” He challenges and Alex takes a slow breath in so as not to rise to the bait as quickly as Michael wants him to. He’s not going to be baited into a fight. “You?” 

“Maybe,” he responds. “But we can talk about that tomorrow. For now, you’re either slumming it in your truck or you’re letting me drive you home.” 

Michael protests, but Alex waits thirty seconds and steps closer, putting a hand on Michael’s arm and watching the way that all the tension in his body just… disappears.

***

“Why’re you doing this?” Michael asks, for the tenth time. It’s become another tradition that no one talks about. Michael’s stopped getting wasted at the Pony, or at Saturn’s Rings. He’s started drinking himself into oblivion folded awkwardly into the uncomfortable, rusty deck chair in front of a fire pit that’s barely used now, even when the weather dips into the cold.

Alex knows when he’ll be needed. It’s a habit he’s becoming used to. Liz and Michael work every day on the serum that’ll give Isobel and Michael’s abilities enough of a boost for them to try and bring Max back. They work on theories and Michael makes sure Isobel’s eating and sleeping and taking care of herself before he comes back here and drowns himself. Liz has taken to texting the ‘Team Human’ group chat that Kyle had set up three months back with updates and when it’s especially bad, Alex goes out. 

“Why do you keep coming back?” 

Alex just patiently pushes Michael up the three small steps into the Airstream and nudges him towards the bed. He’s already finished the bottle of water that Alex had shoved at him before even attempting to haul him out of the chair. Michael moves without any real protest because he's drunk, because it's _Alex_ asking and he's always been helpless to say no to Alex. It's just another reminder of how much power he has over Michael, the way he could break - _has broken_ \- him with a touch or a word or a thought. He could rebuild him with the same, but it's terrifying. He swallows and takes a breath before he pulls the door shut, closing out the world and turns to see Michael on the bed. He’s taken his shirt off, curls in disarray and Alex is reaching out, smoothing them off his forehead in a move that feels like it should be muscle memory. It isn’t, not yet, but the way Michael’s head turns and his eyes close, the way he leans into it, chasing the touch to make it last just that little bit longer absolutely is. Alex knows Michael’s always been starved for affection, and whenever it’s offered - even if it’s offered by Alex Manes - he’s going to crave it. 

“Alex?”

He swallows again, looks down at Michael and swallows the urge to lean in and press his lips against those curls, to pull Michael in close and just hold him. 

“Yeah?” 

“Why’re you doing this?” The repeated question sounds so small and vulnerable and Alex sighs. His fingers push through Michael’s hair once before he’s nudging his shoulder to push him back so he’s lying down. Michael goes because he’s drunk and it’s Alex. “I don’t need you to save me.” 

“I know,” Alex replies, waiting for Michael to settle on his side, belt unbuckled and whipped loose, falling onto the floor with a clatter. He fusses with sheets as Michael lifts his hips and wriggles out of his jeans. Alex looks at the ceiling; they’ve gone through these motions too and Michael carelessly undressing in front of him smacks of the kind of domesticity that Alex has tortured himself with. “That’s not what I’m doing.” 

Michael rolls onto his side and tugs the sheets up over his waist and Alex bends down to scoop the jeans up from where they’ve been puddled on the floor, kicked off the bed along with Michael’s boots. 

“I told you,” he continues, though he’s not looking back at the bed to see if Michael’s listening. He knows he is. Michael’s eyes will be focused on the back of his head, intense and broken, a decade of lonely experience warring against the flickering hope that’s always rekindled when Alex is around. “I told you I was done walking away.”

Michael hums a little, and Alex can hear him shuffling about trying to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress of the cot-bed that’s too small for someone with Michael’s limbs. 

“I told you- I said that you were my family, Michael, and I meant that.” 

The rustling stops. 

“You did?”

Alex freezes, because of all the things he thought that Michael might have considered to be a lie in their previous conversations, that hadn’t been one of them. Now, he realises, it’s the only one that matters. Of course Michael wouldn’t have believed him; they were in a building that was about to blow up, they were about to _die_ and for all the careful curation of his expressions normally, Alex knows that he was desperate, that he looked as wildly desperate as he felt when truths he normally tried to hide spilt out of him uncontrollably. He feels monumentally stupid in that moment for not having realised. 

He takes a breath and turns to look at Michael, he can feel the way his lips curl up into a small smile that’s sad and doesn’t reach his eyes. It feels slightly less hollow than the ones he gave to Maria over the bar at the Pony, but only slightly. He wets his lower lip and nods, meeting Michael’s eyes for a moment before looking away to compose himself. 

“Yeah, Michael,” he says, not liking the way his voice breaks a little at the way Michael’s frame loosens like a puppet whose strings have been cut as his name crosses Alex’s lips twice in as many minutes. “I did. I do. And if you want me to stay, I’ll stay.”

There’s a pause and it hangs in the air long enough that Alex wants to try and suck the words out of the air and stuff them back inside of himself but Michael lifts his head and looks at Alex and he wets his lower lip and wriggles towards the wall.

“Please-” Michael breathes, the words whispered into the air like he’s afraid of shattering a precious moment. “Stay.”

+1 _ **I have no right to love you, but I still do.**_

Sunlight streams through the curtains of the cabin and Alex curses under his breath, escaping from the light by rolling over and burying his face in the curve of Michael’s neck, slinging his arm over Michael’s waist and smiling against his skin as sleepy arms lift to wrap around him properly, tugging him closer.

“‘Lex?” 

Alex really loves Michael first thing in the morning, when he’s sleep-rough and pliable, natural warmth wrapped in the echoed heat of the sheets they’re tangled in. There’s an early-morning huskiness to his voice that shoots prickles of pleasure down Alex’s spine and he nuzzles closer, nudging the edge of Michael’s jaw with his nose until he tips his head to the side slightly and makes the space there that Alex wants. 

“Sun’s too bright,” he murmurs, pressing a butterfly kiss against the skin under his lips because how could he not? It’s on display and it’s there and Michael makes a pleasant humming sound in response and his arms tighten where they’ve wound around him.

“Mm,” Michael replies, “fuck the sun. Go back t’sleep, ‘Lex.” Alex feels the touch of Michael’s lips against his forehead, and then his chin against the top of his head as Michael manoeuvres him into a position significantly more sprawled across his chest than Alex had intended on being. His fingers flick absently and the curtains are pulled across that final bit and the room’s swamped in darkness again. “Fixed it.” 

Alex smiles and kisses the hollow of Michael’s throat, lulled back to sleep.

***

“Whatcha doin?”

Michael hooks his chin over Alex’s shoulder, arms sliding around his waist as he comes up behind him in the kitchen of the cabin. Over the past two years, they’ve been adding some extensions to the place; the kitchen’s bigger now and the bedroom’s actually linked to the main house meaning Alex doesn’t have to shuffle around outside in the dark anymore. Having a bigger kitchen has meant that they’d been experimenting with food more. Turns out Michael’s a really good cook and has been a secret foodie for years (but with no decent cooking facilities in the Airstream it was more appealing to spend his money on booze), which just means that Alex has been doing his best to catch up.

Wentz is sitting beside Alex, looking up at him with her eyes hopeful and huge. She’s already had the leftovers from Alex’s first attempt at cooking that morning and her tail’s thumping on the hardwood floor just waiting for him to fail again. He shoots a glare at her - traitor - even as he sinks backwards into the warmth of Michael’s chest. 

“Cooking.” 

He can feel the way Michael’s head cants to the side slightly and Wentz responds to Michael’s attention with a yip, front paws tapping on the floor.

“That such a good idea?” The gentle tease is accompanied by a kiss to his ear, “Wentz looks like she’s already had enough of your cooking for one morning.”

“Well, it was never meant to be for her,” Alex retorts with a snort, reaching back and pinching Michael’s side gently. “I’m trying to make _us_ breakfast.”

Michael laughs and kisses Alex’s neck again, mumbling against the skin, “Is that such a good idea?” he repeats and then hurries backwards to avoid the playful smack with the clean spatula he knows his coming his way. “I can do breakfast, Alex.”

“I know,” Alex says, dismayed when the eggs he had previously been paying attention to are suddenly burned. “I just- I wanted to do it.”

“How ‘bout we go to the Crashdown?” Michael suggests, floating Wentz’s bowl up onto the side so Alex can scrape the scrambled egg into it without having to bend down. “They do a breakfast that’s less charred around the edges.” 

Alex turns and scowls at Michael, though it’s without any real heat. Michael just holds up his hands in supplication and shrugs, unapologetic grin somewhat undermining the sincerity of his gestures. 

He laughs as Alex throws a dish cloth at him and Wentz barks because she’s well aware that there’s food up on the counter _for her_ that is not in her mouth.

***

Breakfast on Saturdays at the Crashdown becomes a ritual for them now. Three months on, Alex is much better at cooking breakfast, but their found family’s also taken to congregating there on Saturday so it’s become a family tradition as much as anything else.

In fact, the Crashdown becomes their main place to congregate; they eat there at weekends and they meet there at least once a week as a group, occupy three booths and laugh, swap stories - and seats - for a few hours before going their separate ways. It’s there that Max and Liz announce their engagement, and it’s there that Maria and Isobel sheepishly share their new-found relationship status. It’s there that they celebrate Michael’s graduation from UNM following three years of online classes being completed between jobs. It’s there that they rejoice in the news of Liz’s pregnancy, five months after their wedding. 

And it’s there that on this otherwise uneventful Wednesday night, that Michael clears his throat for quiet and steps out of the booth, dragging Alex with him. Liz looks like she’s going to explode and Alex glances around all the expectant faces, turned to look at Kyle (who just lifted his eyebrows and wiggled one finger to tell Alex to _turn the other way, dumbass_ ) and when his attention returned to Michael, the air directly in front of him is empty. 

Gaze falling to see Michael kneeling on the floor, Alex’s head spins a little and his heart starts hammering. They’ve been together for years, now, and Alex is happy with the way things are. He can feel his cheeks heating up, ears flushing as he’s keenly aware of everyone’s eyes on them.

“Alex,” Michael’s saying. “I- Look, I know we don’t need paper or anything to prove to anyone else how we feel but I- I’ve wanted to wake up beside you since I was sixteen.” Alex sees Michael’s eyes dart to Max for reassurance, who just smiles and nods subtly, movement almost - but not quite - masked by the way he bounces the baby in his arms. “You- it- you’re the first person that made me feel like I belonged anywhere, that I had a place and a person. I used to think that it was music that made my entropy change but it isn’t. It’s you.” He swallows and fidgets nervously, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans for a ring that he lays out on his palm and offers it to Alex as though it’s not a life-changingly thoughtful gift.

He looks up, meets Alex’s eyes with a shy and crooked grin. “Marry me, Alex?”

Alex takes the ring from Michael’s hand and closes his fingers around it, thinking that he’ll examine and admire the titanium-and-alien-ship-piece ring later when it’s on his finger. His other hand catches Michael’s wrist and tugs him upright and Michael goes with the movement because it’s _Alex_ and he’s never said no to him before. 

When their lips meet in a kiss, it’s the kind of moment that stories are written about. Alex’s fingers bury in Michael’s hair, tangling in those curls he loves so much, and Michael’s hands secure at Alex’s waist, pulling him close. Fireworks spark behind Alex’s eyes and the pieces of his life slot into place, clicking together in absolute perfection. 

“Is that a yes?” Michael asks against Alex’s mouth when they break apart, breathless and brilliant, bright and alive and _infinite_.

“It’s about damn time,” Kyle calls from behind them and just like that, the moment’s broken.

Alex, unwilling to let go of it so easily, nods. “Yeah, Guerin,” he says softly, “it’s a yes.”


End file.
